


Dreamers in Night and Day

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, figure skating AU, painkiller addiction, rule 63!Bahorel, rule 63!Combeferre, rule 63!Feuilly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skates on, he stretches, which he really should have done before putting his skates on. It’s some half-assed stretching, too, because more than anything he needs the slick of untouched ice beneath his blades and the silence of an empty rink—it’s been so long—with nothing but the sound of his skates digging deep for company.</p>
<p>He shucks off his sweatshirt and leaves it on the bench beside his shoes and his duffel bag, and when he opens the glass door to where the ice is waiting is for him, the chill raises goosebumps along his forearms. The ache in his knee is already dulled from the Vicodin earlier that morning, and thank god for that.</p>
<p>He steps back onto the ice, and he hopes it feels like home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fresh Start

Grantaire tries to appear casual as he open the door to the arena—he knows the performance is for nothing and no one, because no one in their right mind is at an ice arena at five a.m., but it’s a habit, gleaned from two years of going to open skates with the general public and hoping he isn’t recognized. A year before that, even people in the grocery store could put the correct name to his face, while his appearances at ice rinks always began and ended with kids lined up to get an autograph. Sometimes they would ask him to sign their skates, and he would, sheepishly. He prefers the anonymity of two years without a title or television appearance, and lately even open skates have been relatively safe territory, aside from a few adolescents pointing at him from time to time and whispering to their friends. 

A real practice at five a.m. though—he doesn’t need to pull the green wool cap so far down over his head, there are no strangers here to recognize him—but he does anyway. It’s some sort of comfort to calm his nerves. Well, that and the two pills he took this morning. Usually mornings only get one, since he’s trying to cut back, but this morning gets two. To ward off any pain in his knee, he told himself, as he swallowed the pills dry.

Real practice does not start until six a.m., on Mondays, Jean Valjean had informed him over coffee two days ago, but the rink was always kept open for him and his skaters, so he could show up at any time. The rink itself—past the lobby and the closed skate rental counter and sorry excuse for a concession stand—is only dimly lit, but from here he can tell the ice is fresh. Something in him aches to feel the scratch of his blades in clean, new ice, and Grantaire doesn’t bother to make it into the locker room. He drove here in his training clothes—fitted sweatpants and a t-shirt—and no one is around to steal his shoes. He steps out of them and sits on the nearest bench to pull his skates on.

These are familiar, new from after his injury but two years loved and not worn enough, not nearly enough.

He spoke to Coach Javert for the time in two years, three months ago, ran a practice, and Grantaire had promptly left and never came back. Packed up the things that mattered and left Palm Springs for good. He certainly didn’t have the motivation to seek out a new coach on his own, not after so many years with Javert, but apparently someone had heard he was looking to compete again, needed a coach, and that was why Valjean had called him. Valjean hadn’t taken on any men’s singles skaters for over four years, but he was worth a shot. More than worth it, really, with his reputation and the gold medals his skaters dragged in year after year.

As Grantaire laces up his skates, he smirks, thinking of how Javert will seethe when he finds out that his one-time Olympic hopeful had moved on to Valjean.

If Javert had casually mentioned the rink would be open early, before practice started, and a new skater made the mistake of showing up when practice started, he would immediately refuse to coach them. Valjean seems kinder than that, but Grantaire is early anyway, at least today.

Skates on, he stretches, which he really should have done before putting his skates on. It’s some half-assed stretching, too, because more than anything he needs the slick of untouched ice beneath his blades and the silence of an empty rink—it’s been so long—with nothing but the sound of his skates digging deep for company.

He shucks off his sweatshirt and leaves it on the bench beside his shoes and his duffel bag, and when he opens the glass door to where the ice is waiting is for him, the chill raises goosebumps along his forearms. The ache in his knee is already dulled from the Vicodin earlier that morning, and thank god for that.

He steps back onto the ice, and he hopes it feels like home.

…..

“Did you see the new guy out on the ice?” Cosette asks, and pulls a dark sweater on over her favorite, ancient sports bra. It’s pink, with green polka dots and miniature pictures of ice cream cones, and Feuilly used to scoff at it. Cosette has had it since she was thirteen, like most of her clothes. She used to mourn what the sport had done to her body, short and muscled and completely lacking in the curves that all her favorite actress had, but she was compact enough to throw and jump and usually land safely, and that’s what mattered most. Feuilly cracks jokes about her own body, too, how it’s as flat as a board and she could probably get away without wearing even a sports bra.

On the girls’ side of the locker room it’s just them, and really, the whole group—but really, that’s just three of them—is at the point where they could probably all share a locker room, if it weren’t expressly against the rules of the rink.

“Grantaire,” Feuilly replies automatically. “We used to get fairly shit-faced together after every event and then spray ourselves down with Lysol after so our coaches couldn’t smell the smoke on us the next day. We always showered before the next day’s practice, but Lysol always seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Cosette wrinkles her nose. “Aren’t you quitting before the season starts?”

Feuilly shrugs, and sighs. “Maybe, maybe not. Stress, and all that. Besides, I’m only on two cigarettes a day. I’m in the best physical shape of my life—I think I’ll survive.”

“So what do you think of Grantaire, then?”

“He’s a sweet guy. A bit of a troublemaker, but nothing major. Amazing skating. I haven’t talked to him since his injury though. No one really did, based on what people were saying at the Grand Prix circuit those months after the Olympics.” Feuilly shrugs again—it’s her favorite thing to do, pretend not to care too much, although anyone can see the lie in that when they see how hard she works, day after day, Cosette thinks. “He’ll be an interesting addition, but we’ll see. Tearing his ACL—that’s pretty damn hard to come back from. I think Valjean mentioned he’s been working on getting his jumps back on his own, so that’s a start.”

They sit together on the long locker room benches, lacing up their skates in sync with one another, and slipping on their skate guards. Cosette’s are a lime green, and Feuilly’s are pink. Feuilly always does everything in pink, when she can—Valjean draws the line at her actual costumes, citing the awfulness of the color with her orange hair would make it difficult for the judges to even look at her, let alone score her programs.

“How do you think Enjolras will react?”

Cosette snorts. “No idea.” Then, after a moment for thought, “He’ll be fine, as long as Grantaire doesn’t bother him too much. But, I don’t know, I’m really glad Dad is taking on another guy after so long, even if he keeps threatening to retire when I do. Though I’m afraid he’ll be under too much stress with four skaters training for the Olympics all at once.”

“You and Enjolras want to drop out of contention?” Feuilly asks, a single eyebrow raised, though the corners of her lips are quirked up in a smile.

…..

Enjolras watches him for awhile, the new addition to their team, longer than he intends to. Practice does not start for another half hour yet. He’s seen Grantaire skate before, usually on television but twice in person, in the stands. He was more impressive back then, with music and choreography and no hiatus from the ice, but he still seems to have retained the same excellent basic technique. Clean, strong edges, powerful speed. Simple, but elegant, and no sign of strain on his old injury. Next, he cycles through jumps—a single axel, small and effortless, some backward strokes, and then a double lutz, just as easy. Next he moves on to triples, and it’s clear he’d made an effort to get his jumps back before returning to more serious, competitive training, just to make sure he could do it. A triple-toe-double-toe combination, landed clean, and then Grantaire is smiling because he knows he’s made for it.

It’s how they all look, really, at one time or another.

Enjolras considers that Grantaire will have to remaster a lot more than an easy triple-double combination in order to compete on an international level—or even a national one. The top men have quadruples, like Grantaire used to. But he undoubtedly knows this already, too.

He’s still grinning when he looks up, through the window, and sees Enjolras watching him. Grantaire comes to a complete stop, and something like a stricken expression crosses his face before it’s replaced by another smile, one that does not conquer his face like the other one did. Enjolras opens the glass door, removes his skate guards and joins him on the ice. Cosette is taking her time in the locker room, but he can start warming up without her.

“You’re Enjolras, right?” Grantaire asks, before Enjolras even opens his mouth. He glides over, holds out his hand, and looks a little sheepish. “Combeferre used to talk about you all the time. Plus, you know, I ought to recognize the national champion in pairs skating even if it isn’t my discipline.”

Grantaire’s hand is smaller than his, and colder, too, when he takes it. In skates, Grantaire is almost his height. His dark curls are an unruly wreck, probably haven’t seen a comb in weeks, by the look of them. Blue eyes, even bluer than Cosette’s, though less clear and bright and knowing. There’s more weariness there, and while he seems unfocused there’s a sharpness in his gaze, too.

“TV and Combeferre both do you quite a disservice,” he continues. “Neither informed me what a Greek god you are this close up.”

Enjolras chooses to ignore the comment, because he isn’t sure what else to do. Flirting isn’t exactly his strong suit, and definitely not here and not now and not with Grantaire whom he barely knows. “How is Combeferre?” he tries instead, but Grantaire doesn’t stop smirking entirely.

“You’d know more than I, I think,” Grantaire says airily. It’s odd, in their world, meeting a perfect stranger and getting familiar quickly like this. They all know each other, even if they’ve never spoken. They can list their coaches and their training partners and their friends, their biggest wins and losses to date and the most minute strengths and weaknesses in the other’s skating. Formal introduction and boring getting-to-know-yous aren’t exactly necessary. “We haven’t kept in touch, really, since my pseudo-retirement.” The words are loaded. And it’s there again, that brief glimpse of shock and a touch of sadness. Enjolras feels lucky in comparison.

“We don’t get to see each too often.” Enjolras shrugs. “We’re doing an online poli-sci class together, though.”

Enjolras and Combeferre had skated together, but that felt like ages ago instead of only five years. They’d stagnated, stuck just below the podium on the Junior level, but then Javert in Palm Springs had picked up Combeferre to skate with another of his students, Courfeyrac. The two balanced well, much better than Enjolras had with her—two technicians, every movement precise and beautiful, but emotionless. Courfeyrac’s exuberance suited Combeferre better, and her attention to detail added a neatness to his skating that it had lacked before. Valjean had offered Enjolras a spot skating with his daughter, and things had flowed from there. Cosette brought a joy to their performances that was more difficult for Enjolras’ seriousness to achieve, and they worked as well in pairs as Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The rivalry was a challenge for Enjolras and Combeferre’s close friendship, but quickly overcome. The distance was harder. Even so, reporters and television commentators loved to bring up the “greatest American skating rivalry” every time they got the chance, while everyone else cringed.

“Tell her I said hi,” Grantaire says. There’s an awkward silence, and Grantaire looks down at his skates and digs his toe pick into the ice.

It’s a convenient time for Cosette and Feuilly to make their entrance. Feuilly’s first, and Grantaire greets her with a muttered “hey asshole” that is belied by his broad grin—a real one, this time, that lights up his whole face.

Not even a hello from her, just: “Please tell me we are getting wasted this weekend and reminiscing about the good old days.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Grantaire replies, and there’s a quick one-armed hug before he turns to Enjolras’s partner. “And you must be the beautiful Cosette.” He drops into a dramatic, gentlemanly bow.”

“Well if Feuilly likes you, and Feuilly hates everyone, you’ll probably fit in just fine here,” Cosette says, laughing when Grantaire places a kiss on the back of her hand.

He gets up, then, a dusting of ice on one knee, and they all see the struggle there. They wouldn’t have, if they weren’t looking for it—it’s only a slight pause and a grunt as he straightens up—but it still shouldn’t be there. Grantaire pretends nothing is wrong, Feuilly coughs, and they say nothing. Injuries in their field are career-destroying, but with some more training he may get past it, Enjolras thinks. He’s not as sure he likes Grantaire as Feuilly and Cosette seem to, but he pities him all the same.

“I’ll be back in a few.” Grantaire heads for the door. “And don’t start without me. Cosette, make sure your dad knows I didn’t get here late, either,” he jokes.

The silence between the three of them with Grantaire gone is less awkward, more familiar and honest after the time they’ve spent together year after year.

“He was totally checking you out, Enjolras,” Cosette finally says, breaking the quiet. Feuilly smirks and dissolves into a fit of giggles, while Enjolras can only ineffectively glare at the both of them.


	2. A Nonexistent Courtship

Practices go well for a week. Valjean is, in some ways, a kinder coach than Javert. He does not make Grantaire drill jumps for hours upon hours, until he can hit them every single time. That will only lead to further injury, everyone knows, and Grantaire certainly does not need that. His jumps need work, but that can come in time. Sloppy mistakes in other areas of his skating begin to be corrected—centering his spins, improved detail on his footwork—things that will be put to better use once choreography is introduced in two weeks. Valjean watches Grantaire more closely than his other skaters, gaining a sense of how he skates, his strengths and weaknesses, and Grantaire suspects that as he practices, his coach has begun to choreograph something for him in his mind, and on paper later at home.

Feuilly was already raving about getting to skate to “Tosca”—she did not care what she skated for the short, but she had prevailed upon Valjean to let her have “Tosca” for the long. Of the music for Cosette and Enjolras’ season programs, Cosette only smiled and sighed. “I hope Dad lets us do something a little different this year. Then we’ll go back to classical for the Olympic season, if he wants.”

“We do our best with classical,” Enjolras said, frowning at his partner. Granted, it was a fond frown.

“Enjolras is only afraid of having to do something silly to silly music.” Cosette smirked. “But I think it would be fun!”

Grantaire, for his part, liked to watch Enjolras skate to anything. Silence, usually, since music selections from Valjean were not yet forthcoming, but Enjolras had a certain musicality even to that. Skating with Cosette probably helped, Grantaire had to admit. His skating tended to be stern, serious—although the execution of every move was perfect—but Cosette brought lightness and fun, and occasionally Enjolras even cracked his marble face into a smile.

Grantaire also had to admit that he very much liked watching the muscles in Enjolras’ ass move when he skated, too, but that was neither here nor there.

Fucking training partners was always a bad idea. Not that Enjolras would want to fuck him anyway—he might not even be into guys, but more likely than anything else, he considered sex a distraction from his skating. Enjolras seemed like the type to consider everything except skating a distraction from his skating. Although, Grantaire recalled, there was that online class Enjolras was taking, which meant he had some thoughts as to life outside of his skating career. But sleeping with anyone, especially Grantaire, was probably out of the question. While Grantaire was building quick friendships with Feuilly and Cosette, Enjolras barely spoke to him in spite of Grantaire’s more-than-awkward attempts at flirtation.

“You’ve got it bad,” Feuilly tells him, after practice on Friday.

“Nah. Just an appreciation for beautiful things.”

Enjolras and Cosette finish up the death spiral they are working on, and join Grantaire and Feuilly off of the ice, along the wall near the stands, and they all begin to untie their skates. Grantaire tries hard not to let his hands shake—he’s been trying to cut back on the painkillers, he’ll have to, before he begins to compete in the next several months, but he needs one soon.

“Grantaire.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at Enjolras, whose skates are already off. He’s looking down at Grantaire with something that is probably disdain. Grantaire fumbles more with the knot of his laces.

“Since it appears that you are here to stay and train with us for some time.” Here, Enjolras hesitates. “Would you like to teach a few skating classes with the rest of us on Sunday?”

“What for?” Grantaire scoffs, before he can stop himself. He kicks off one of his skates, begins to work on the other one.

“It’s something we do for the community. Free skating classes, mostly for children interested in the sport.”

“How charitable of you. And to think my parents were broke for years paying for my lessons.” Grantaire can’t keep the tone of mockery from his voice, but at the angry twist of Enjolras’ mouth, he adds: “Sure, why not? Not like I have anything better to do on my day off.”

“Forget I even asked. We don’t need your cynical attitude there.” And by the time Grantaire rises from his hunch over his feet, skates gathered in his arms, Enjolras has stalked off.

Feuilly and Cosette are both watching Grantaire, eyebrows raised.

“Way to go, Romeo,” Feuilly says. “Try to be a little smoother at my party tonight, okay?”

“Party?” He is still frowning after Enjolras’ retreating form.

“Yeah. If you consider the four of us plus some bad movies and cheap booze to be a party. Turns out normal people don’t really want to hang out with a bunch of emotionally constipated twenty-somethings who’ve done nothing but figure skate since they were six years old.”

“Plus my roommate,” Cosette adds.

“But Eponine is the exception to the rule. Besides, she’s only there because she’s head over heels for Marius. Who is only there because he is head over heels for you.”

Cosette blushes, while Grantaire watches the entire exchange with amusement. “Who is Marius?” he asks.

“He’s one of my dad’s Junior level skaters. He’s in high school, so he has evening practices. And he is not head over heels for me. Ignore Feuilly.” Cosette glares at the other girl, half-heartedly, and her cheeks are still pink.

“He’s in high school, which means he has way better and cooler people to hang out with on a Friday night besides us. And yet every Friday night, there he is trying to squeeze in next to you on the couch. It’s cute, really, so don’t be embarrassed.”

Cosette continues to be embarrassed, puts her face in her hands. “I swear to God, Feuilly, someday you will sorely regret teasing everyone about their love lives so much.”

“I doubt that.” Feuilly grins, and turns back to Grantaire. “My place, at nine. I’ll text you directions.” She stands on tiptoes to peer at the locker room doors. “Enjolras should be leaving soon, so you can avoid him glaring at you or defiantly-not-glaring-at-you in the locker room now. Unless you’re into that sort of thing, but you may have missed your opportunity listening to us gossip.”

He slings his skates over his shoulder and heads for the locker room, winks at Feuilly and Cosette over his shoulder. At least his nonexistent charms seem capable of making him a few friends, since he’s going to be in Detroit for a while.

…..

When Grantaire walks into Feuilly’s so-called “party” he immediately feels overdressed in black jeans and a green t-shirt. But then he knew Enjolras would be there, and was at least semi-conscious of what he might look like, and he knows he looks best in green.

Everyone else is in their pajamas, because why not it’s not like they have anyone to impress here other than the assholes they watch fall dozens of times a day. Cosette lounges on the sofa in fleece pants covered in penguins, with a matching button-up top, and she’s wedged between whom he guesses are Eponine and Marius. Eponine is a gorgeous dark-haired girl with olive skin, as pretty as Cosette is, really, though they are definitely opposites. Then red-haired, freckle-faced—though still less ginger than Feuilly—Marius is mooning over Cosette, while Eponine attempts to moon over Marius from her place beside Cosette. Cosette, meanwhile, looks like she wants to strangle the both of them, fuming silently as she stares too-intently at the television screen.

“What are you guys watching, anyway?”

“It’s  _Breaking Bad_  night. I’ve got all the seasons on DVD,” Feuilly answers. She is slouched sideways in a comfy-looking armchair, in a long pink and black nightshirt. Her very freckled legs dangle from where they’ve been kicked over the chair’s arm on one side. “There’s beer in the fridge. Kitchen is right back there.” She gestures behind her.

“Thanks.” Grantaire shuffles back to the kitchen, stops abruptly when he sees Enjolras sitting at the kitchen table, poring over a textbook. He’s pale, in the bluish glow of the laptop at his side. “Homework on a Friday night?” Grantaire asks, taking a few tentative steps further into the kitchen. “But there’s so much awkward fun happening in the living room.”

“It has to get done sometime,” Enjolras replies, and runs a hand through his blond curls in exasperation. “And Cosette and Feuilly make me come to these ridiculous things regardless of all the work I have. I’ll be out once I get at least another two pages of this paper finished.” Not once does he look up from his book, even when Grantaire drops into a chair beside him. Grantaire doesn’t stare, but he can’t help but notice that Enjolras looks like fucking Apollo even in flannel pants and an old t-shirt.

“So poli-sci, huh?”

Enjolras only grunts in acknowledgement.

“You’re a real world changer, aren’t you? Going to campaign for free skating lessons for all the poor little kids out there?”

The other man’s eyes finally meet Grantaire’s. “And what are you going to do? Skate until your body breaks beyond repair and fall off the face of the earth?”

Grantaire won’t let himself be rattled by the mention of his injury. “I did art school for a semester. I loved it, but it just isn’t the same, you know?”

Enjolras turns back to his laptop, fingertips begin to tap across the keyboard. “I know,” he sighs, and it’s so quiet Grantaire almost doesn’t hear it.

“You want a beer?” Grantaire rises to his feet, and the wooden chair skids and screeches along  ugly yellow linoleum as he stands.

“I’m fine.”

Grantaire grabs a beer for himself. Normally he’d want more than one but he knows he has to be more careful. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the blurring weightlessness of Vicodin and alcohol—like gliding on ice, except without the fear of falling—but to indulge in that here and now would be beyond stupid. Just one beer.

From behind him, Enjolras says, “Come get me once Feuilly starts in on the Polish.”

“She still does that?” Grantaire chuckles. “Well, I guess Warsaw will never stop being the place where she won her first World title, will it?”

“Yours, too, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, I am honored you even knew that,” he says with sarcasm, even as he feels his face break into a genuine smile. “I just never felt the need to teach myself Polish because of it. Does she still tell her whole life story every time she drinks tequila?”

“Keep tequila far, far away from here,” Enjolras says, almost-seriously, and there’s dry humor there that Grantaire likes. “If I’m forced to hear her story of walking herself to the rink every day at five years old and getting in for free by virtue of what a cute kid she was, you do not want to be the one held responsible for it.”

“ _And then I taught myself to skate_ ,” Grantaire says, in a rather poor, high-pitched Feuilly imitation that would earn him a smack on the arm if she overheard it. He raises his beer in Enjolras’ direction and takes a swig. “I’ll see you out there once you’re done with that paper, then.”

Enjolras does not reply, and Grantaire suspects he’s already fallen headfirst back into his schoolwork. But at least they managed a civil conversation of sorts, for once. Maybe, Grantaire hoped, they’d even have a chance at another sometime soon.


End file.
